The Undying Past Part 47

Leo led him into the study, asked him to sit down, and rang for Christian.

"Bring us a bottle of sour cooking Moselle," he commanded.

The old servant gave him an astonished look. "It is not fit to drink even in the kitchen punch-bowl," he took the liberty of murmuring.

"Do what I tell you!"

Christian departed, shaking his head, and Leo settled himself comfortably opposite the pastor.

"Now let us hear all the scandal," he said. "What chimney smokes? Where has a hair been found in the soup?"

"Fritzchen! Fritzchen!" Brenckenberg rebuked him with his broadest smile. "You shouldn't hold up to ridicule the shepherd of your soul."

He had always called him "Fritzchen." Why, no one knew, not even he himself. The pet name had survived the decade during which their relations to each other had so altered. The "you," which was held to be officially correct, yielded to the familiar "thou" when they sat together over their wine. Sometimes Leo gave the signal, but oftenest it was the old man, whose heart overflowed in his cups, who adopted the more endearing form of address at his own peril.

Christian brought the wine with the conscience of a poisoner, and hobbled out again.

The small black eyes of the shepherd of souls sparkled with satisfaction under their fierce bushy brows; he smacked his full lips.

The Lord's wrestler had doffed his armour, and wanted to be simply a man, a peace-loving, weak, l.u.s.ty human being, who next Sunday would have something to repent. The bottles looked respectable enough, the wine somewhat pale, it was true, as it trickled into the dignified rummers in a watery stream, but that might be deceptive. He breathed hard through his distended nostrils, and thrust out his upper lip.

"Your health, old fellow!"

"Your health, Fritzchen!"

He tasted, started, half-choked, and coughed violently; then, with a countenance expressive of unutterable human grief and disappointment, he put down his gla.s.s.

"Nice wine!" remarked Leo, raising his forefinger to command a.s.sent.

The pastor, purple from coughing, would have liked to spit it out, but daren't.

"Fritzchen," he said plaintively, "what tricks are you up to now?"

"Isn't my wine to your taste, Herr Pastor?"

"I can't say it is. No. By Jove, Fritzchen!"

"I don't understand you, dear pastor. You see that I drink it. Indeed, since I began to repent my past sins I have drunk nothing else. It is what we call the wine of repentance and crucifixion! Pies-Porter....

Year '83.... An unusually cold and damp year, as you will remember."

"Ah!" exclaimed the pastor, suddenly enlightened.

"Yes, yes, old friend. Do you grasp it now? Since we condemned our Fritz to h.e.l.l-fire there has been howling and gnas.h.i.+ng of teeth at Halewitz. We don't wallow in luxury here, as David did with his Bathshebas. Sour Moselle is our only drink. Your health, old boy."

"Look here, Fritzchen," said the pastor, relapsing, after his shock, into the affectionate "thou," "if the condition of your conscience compels you to drink it, that is your own affair. I don't wish to hinder any one in carrying out their principles; but you must allow me, if you please, to be only an onlooker."

Leo laughed triumphantly in his face, for this was what he expected.

"If I am not mistaken, my dear friend, you once expressed yourself in the following beautiful and touching words: 'Bareheaded will I go, and walk with my naked soles on red-hot bricks.' Yes, you said you would do that for your David, your Fritzchen. But now, when it comes to the point, it seems that you can't even share in his penitence to the extent of drinking a gla.s.s of Pies-Porter, year '83, with him."

The old man stroked his cheeks. "You take me for a fool, Fritz," he said; "but ... you are right." And with a desperate effort he emptied the gla.s.s in one draught.

Leo, in the name of all his sins, did the same, and refilled the gla.s.ses.

"Now, Fritzchen," the old man began, letting his bulldog glance, half severe, half servile, rest on his squire, "we are not Catholics, and I am not your father confessor. I simply came here to talk over with you the autumn conference, and, with the Lord's permission, to drink a gla.s.s of good wine in your company. Instead, you choose to set before me this trash, and to begin talking of that cursed business, which has already caused me enough headaches."

"_You_ began it, old man."

"Yes, in the pulpit. That is my d.a.m.ned duty.... And if you rascals will carry on such games, then----"

"You must rail and swear...."

"You've had many a clout from me, Fritzchen...."

"And I have kissed the hand that held the rod," he interposed, laughing.

"I thought I had done enough; but if I had known _that_ of you ... ah!

ah!"

"You would like to make it good?" mocked Leo.

"If possible ... with pleasure."

Leo seized his gla.s.s. "Health, Master Pastor!"

"Fritzchen, have mercy!"

"I say drink! _Donnerwetter_!"

And again the superb gla.s.ses made reproachful music as they met at being turned to such abominable uses.

Leo uncorked the second bottle, and offered the pastor a cigar.

"I beg pardon, Fritzchen, but are these also--so to say--penitence cigars?"

"What a pity!" thought Leo. "I didn't think of that;" and he shook his head, smiling.

The pastor kindled the excellent weed forthwith, and revelled in the fragrant clouds.

"There you sit, stretching your legs in your splendour," said he, "and split with laughter at the old fat fellow you love to make a fool of.

But do you imagine that it makes what you have done one hair's breadth better?"

"Humph!" said Leo, curling his moustache.

"You may deluge it with rose-water, but it still stinks."

"Humph!" came a second time from Leo.

"That day in the church I gave you a scorcher, to the best of my ability. And now you resent it. That's not pretty of you, Fritzchen."